


This is War

by justbygrace



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Descriptions of war, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 18:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9504665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justbygrace/pseuds/justbygrace
Summary: War!AU. I literally cannot stress this enough.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I was obsessed by the idea of the Ninth Doctor as a war hero with PTSD and I wrote a lot of fics exploring that - this is one of them.  
> Title from the song by the same name by Thirty Seconds from Mars.

Back when Doctor John Smith signed the enlistment papers to volunteer his time and services to the men on the front line, he had no idea what he was signing up for. He'd been young and naive, his closest experience with guns reruns of 'Saving Private Ryan' and his brushes with death happening only in a sterile examination room. He'd been six months out of medical school when the plea from the military came, Doctors were in short supply and they needed more. It didn't occur to him to question why they were in short supply, he just hopped down to the local recruitment office, went through the hurried physical exam, and signed on the dotted line.

They tossed him on board a jet with hundreds of other fresh-faced young men, transferred him to a shaky by-plane, booted him out via parachute, and took off. It took him exactly seven minutes to want to go home. By then it was too late, he was already holding a scalpel with instructions to remove the bullet from some soldiers left calf. John stared down at the pale face of the man, fought down the urge to lose the watery gruel he'd consumed on the plane, and started cutting.

Six months later the idealism that he'd left home with was gone and all he had left was the dogged determination that he was making sure as many of these young people made it home as he could. The smell of human waste and blood and rotten food and death was his constant companion, the whine of bullets the lullaby that helped him snatch a few moments of sleep, a belly crawl through mud to reach a fallen comrade was commonplace and when he sliced into a wound using a penknife and stitched it up with bailing twine, he pictured the horrified expressions on his Professor's faces if they could have seen him now. 

The average life expectancy for medical personnel on the front lines was somewhere between five to seven months, their lack of an official uniform making them easy targets for the enemy's bullets. John lasted eleven. It was another day like all the ones before, the rain churning the red dirt into rivers of mud and the cold wind biting through every layer of clothes. He was running on forty-five minutes of sleep and six cups of the bitter excuse for coffee when the static-filled call came in; a routine mission had turned deadly. He was there within thirty minutes, his hands were soaked with blood within seconds, and the explosion happened mere moments after that.

John never knew quite what happened next or how long it took. He remembered it only in bits and pieces: pain, movement, darkness, the rumble of engines, his pleas for help, soft hands, rougher hands, arguments, and over and under and through it all excruciating waves of agony. He woke and slept, his consciousness become one with his unconscious, dreams and nightmares and waking moments blending together into a haze of pain, disturbing images, and undercut with the sound of an angel.

When John finally became aware of himself, he couldn't see. It took him several panicked moments to realize this was because there was a bandage over his eyes and he had to force himself to take several deep breaths before he could think clearly. The mental cataloging of the rest of his body left him assured that everything was still attached though some of it was with stitches and medical tape. He was about to open his mouth and demand some answers when a wave of pain hit him and he lost consciousness again. 

The next time he awoke, someone was bathing his brow with a soft cloth and singing a lullaby he hadn't heard since he was a toddler at his mother's knees. At his sharp intake of breath, the singing stopped, and the angel spoke, introducing herself as Rose telling him she was glad he was alive. He considered speaking, wanted to speak, but she was singing again and he realized nothing he had to say was as important as the song. 

A Doctor finally came to see him, informing him in a brisk tone that there had been an IED and he'd been shipped to the closest permanent hospital. He'd nearly lost a leg, had significant scarring to his face, hands, and torso, and his vision was not guaranteed to return. He was gone before John had time to open his mouth, let alone scream out one of his dozen questions. The news of the damage to his body was hard to hear, but the thought of never being able to see again? That John couldn't deal with. He allowed the darkness of his eyes to permeate his soul, ignoring the world and sinking within himself. 

The only bright spot to his days was Rose who moved down the row of beds, bathing sweaty foreheads, squeezing hands, and constantly singing. Sometimes he was convinced that she spent more time at his bedside than any other, but he had no proof of that, no way of really measuring time except with the pounding of his stubbornly beating heart. She was the only one who could convince him to eat or was allowed to change his bandages; her voice and touch soothing away his nightmares and giving him a reason to force himself to draw in another breath. 

As the days grew into weeks, the strength returned to his body and it was Rose who convinced him to sit up, and then to stand and attempt a few steps. His patience - never his strong suit - was at its lowest ebb, a stubbed toe or a banged shin sending him back to his cot to burrow under the covers and glare sightlessly at the world. Gradually she helped him to walk further and further, eventually making it all the way outdoors where he could feel the sun on his skin, his hair and beard (a result of weeks without access to shaving equipment) teased by the wind. 

He'd been at the hospital for almost two months (and he knew there were rumors of sending him to a different type of hospital altogether) when Rose stopped by his cot one evening to inform him that she'd been transferred and was leaving first thing the next morning. He couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, only the tremble as he clasped her fragile hands between both of his betraying his fear and anger. She started to speak, stopped with a choked sound, and restarted, making him promise to not give up, to never give up. Then she kissed him, pressing her lips to his and wrenching away before he could respond, leaving him alone amidst a hundred wounded soldiers.

It was to her memory that he worked now, determined that he wouldn't let her down. His physical strength was at an all-time high when the Doctor stopped by on one his late-night rounds and gruffly informed him that he could try removing the bandage any day now, whatever progress that his body would make was already completed. Afterwards John lay in shock, his fingers pressed to the edge of the cloth, wishing that Rose was there to hold his hand, to force him to face this moment. He stayed where he was until he could hear her voice in his mind, her whisper tickling his ear, and then he ripped away the bandage. 

His vision wasn't perfect, twenty-five percent loss in both eyes was the cold diagnosis, but nothing could dampen the beauty of the drab walls of the hospital and John was more determined than ever to get back home. The army had other plans for him, of course, and as soon as his release papers were signed, transport was waiting to deliver him back to the front lines. He had something to live for now, an angel who guided his hand, whose voice drowned out the bullets, a figure who met him in his dreams and encouraged him to get up and keep going.

In the end it was a simple bullet wound to his left wrist, shattering through bone and cartilage that got him a seat on the first plane back home. There was an irony in that, he thought, cradling his ruined hand and watching the runway lights welcome him to his land of birth, but he didn't have the energy to appreciate it. The first few weeks and months were a new kind of hell - his damaged wrist and his sharp edges made finding work difficult - and John often wondered if there had been a point to returning home after all.

It was three years to the day John had enlisted when he found himself wandering down by the docks, staring across the water and considering the merits of ending it all. He had almost decided upon the best option when he heard a familiar voice, one that haunted his dreams, whispering his name. He didn't bother to turn around, silently telling his Rose that he was sorry, but he wasn't sure he could hold on any longer. 

It was only the feel of slim fingers sliding between his that told him that maybe this wasn't a dream, that maybe the voice was real. He turned, eyes alighting on a blonde head, a shy smile, the upturned face of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and then she was in his arms and he was swinging her in circles. She was his angel and he was finally home.


End file.
